


Reflections

by Imane Nikko (imane_nikko)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, SPEW | Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 17:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19772560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imane_nikko/pseuds/Imane%20Nikko
Summary: Draco and Hermione drink a great number of cups of tea, and fight about EVERYTHING.





	Reflections

Ordinarily Hermione would never have considered buying something so frivolous. She was no silly, simpering girl; and anyway, she already knew which wizard was her ideal match. He’d been at her side for years, occasionally infuriatingly thick, but loyal and kind-hearted. She _knew_ it was Ron, had been all along.

But something about the charmed necklace called to her. She leaned over it, careful not to touch. The hag who owned this tiny shop on a side street off Diagon Alley had been most particular on that point. These charms only worked once, and if Hermione touched it, it would be valueless to any other customer.

The necklace was simple, a slim gold oval. There was something etched into its surface that could have been runes or just decoration, but the light in the shop was too dim for Hermione to make it out. The metal was lustrous, not simply shiny but faintly radiant. Her fingers itched to brush over the surface of the pendant, and she could practically feel its weight at the pulse point of her throat already.

“Fine,” she said to the proprietress. “I’ll take it.”

Having parted with more Galleons than the piece probably warranted, Hermione reached into the case and lifted the necklace out. It was cool, a bit heavier than she’d expected.

“Wear it well, dearie,” the old woman said as she pocketed Hermione’s money. Her smile hinted at things unspoken. “It will show ye yer match, sure enough. Happens sometimes right away, but it might be making you wait a while.”

“I already know who it’ll show,” she replied. “I just liked it, somehow.”

“Do ye now? Well, may ye wear it in good health, yers and his. Congratulations to y'both.” The hag’s expression remained unchanged. If anything, her smile was even more filled with secrets.

Hermione nodded and stepped out of the shop, wanting to get away from the woman and examine her purchase in better light. When the door shut behind her she held her hand up to her face and looked carefully at the pendant. It was runes, after all. A fine, thin line of them ran right around the edges of the oval. The piece was exceptionally well crafted; the tops of some of the runic letters were stretched high and curved over, forming a decorative border. Unless you looked closely, you wouldn’t notice the writing at all.

She searched the thin edge, looking for a way to open it. Finally her nail brushed along a tiny crack and caught, and the locket opened. Hermione smiled and took a breath, looking into it, anticipating Ron’s blue eyes smiling back at her. Her smile faltered as she tipped it to the light and discovered it was empty. The smooth inner faces were as shiny as glass, but no image appeared and the reflected light was almost blinding. She turned to shield it from the sun and looked into it again. Her whole body froze in shock.

Reflected in the shining surfaces were a pair of grey eyes she knew quite well. He appeared to be looking at her with less contempt than usual, but it was definitely Draco Malf...

“I wouldn’t have thought you the sort to shop here,” came an amused drawl from behind her. “Are you in the market for love charms and attraction potions?” Her hand dropped a bit and she discovered that the image she’d seen, far from a magical apparition, was simply a reflection of the man himself. He was standing right behind her and looking over her shoulder.

“I... not that it’s any of your business, Malfoy, but no, I am not. How did you know it was me, anyway?”

“This is unmistakable, even from a distance,” he said, indicating her mass of frizzy curls with one disdainful finger.

Sighing, she turned away from him again. “I can’t really say it’s nice to see you again, Malfoy. But at least I can easily procure the pleasure of your absence.” With that, she stalked away from him, back toward the bustle of Diagon Alley.

“Wait,” she heard him say behind her. “I’m... sorry, Granger. That was unnecessarily rude of me.”

“Much like the vast bulk of your behaviour for the entirety of our over-long acquaintance,” she retorted.

“That’s a fair point,” he said, doing a creditable imitation of remorse. “Let me make it up to you. I’ll buy you a cup of tea,” he continued, gesturing farther back into the side street behind him. “There’s quite a nice shop just there. One of Mother’s favourites.”

“Leaving aside for the moment the astronomical quantity of tea that would be required to ‘make it up to me,’ Malfoy, what are you thinking? ‘A cup of tea?’ You and me in public, and in an establishment your mother frequents, no less?”

“It’s a new age, Granger. She won’t object if I’m seen with the best friend of the hero of the Wizarding world.” His voice betrayed only the slightest hint of disdain at those last words. “She did save him, after all.”

She spun around on her heel. “And lucky for you that she did, isn’t it. Otherwise you’d be in Azkaban.”

His eyes darkened at that, but he bit back whatever he wanted to say and nodded, once, quick and sharp. “I am aware of that, Granger. But much as you may wish it otherwise, this is where we find ourselves.”

“I don’t wish it otherwise. Harry could have died.”

“Perfect. We’re in agreement then, it’s better for all concerned that I am not in prison.”

“We are not in ag—” Hermione began, outraged, but he cut in again.

“Shall we continue this delightful conversation over tea? All that yelling has to have left you parched.”

“I am not _yell—_ ” she started, but he had already taken her arm and begun steering her toward the door of the tea shop.

“Chin up, Granger. The company may not be everything you could wish for, but I can vouch for the quality of the tea,” he said, and pulled open the door.

Hermione blinked in surprise. The shop wasn’t on the most fashionable street, and from the outside it had seemed rather dark, but inside it was full of reflected light. The walls were hung with all shapes and sizes of mirrors, and even though many of them were old and a bit blackish and speckled, the cumulative effect was amazing. She walked through the door almost without willing it, and looked up to find herself already past the point of no return with a hundred reflected Malfoys already standing by her side and asking for a table.

The prat actually held the chair for her, and she shot him a poisonous look in one of the many mirrors, but he pretended not to see it, taking his own seat opposite her with an almost cordial expression. It was fantastically irritating.

“Malfoy,” she began, practically hissing but trying to keep quiet enough not to draw the attention of everyone else in the place.

“I’m breathless to hear what you have to say, truly, Granger, but just wait until I’ve ordered the tea.” And with that, he signaled to the waitress. Finally, satisfied with his order, he turned to her with a resigned expression on his face. “All right. You might as well let me have it. Just do try to keep your voice down; Mother really does love this place.”

Hermione closed her eyes and drew a sharp breath. “I have no idea what you’re trying to accomplish, Malfoy, but I assure you it’s not worth the time or the Galleons you just dropped on this tea.”

He leaned back a bit, looking at her speculatively. “I’ll have to defer to my own judgment on that, won’t I?”

She arched a brow and analyzed him right back. If he thought he was going to out-speculate her, he had another thing coming. “Out with it. You never made a move that wasn’t calculated in your life. I want to know what it is this time.”

He held up a pair of languid hands in a gesture of resigned acquiescence, still in that annoyingly relaxed position. “I forgot the delight of dealing with Gryffindors. All bravado, no finesse.”

Hermione just fixed him with the same disapproving gaze she’d given Ron when he had tried to persuade her to write two feet of a Charms essay for him because “the Cannons are playing a match!” and waited.

Malfoy bore it a moment or two longer than Ron had before he shook his head slightly and looked down at the table between them.

“Very well. It takes all the fun out of conversation to be this direct, but you seem to honestly prefer it this way, so here it is, Granger. You have something that I want, and I’m willing to pay you to get it.”

“ _Pay_ me?” she wheezed, practically choking on outrage. “What can a poor _Mudblood_ have to sell you?” The red haze descending over her vision meant she didn’t notice him flinch at the word. There was a brief pause, and then...

“You can give me the one thing money doesn’t buy,” Malfoy replied evenly. “Respect and a good family name.”

“Oh, this is too good. You think I am going to lift one _dirty_ finger to help you now that you’ve finally got what you so very richly deserve, and for money no less? Do you think that you can buy my self-respect so easily?”

“No. Not easily — in fact, not at all. The only way you’ll do what I ask is if you let me explain fully. Or are you too blinded by prejudice to hear me out?”

She sank into a disapproving silence and waited.

“As you know, my father made a choice when the Dark Lord first gathered followers to him. That choice, once made, was irrevocable, and it put him on the losing side. Twice. His actions cost my family our position in Wizarding society, which is something Mother values very much. The lie she told the D... Voldemort... only rehabilitated us so far. I don’t expect you to empathise with my concerns for my parents, but I intend to undo the damage that my father’s mistake has done to us, and you are the only one who can help me do it.”

“You can’t erase history. Everyone knows what your family is now.”

“Be that as it may,” Draco went on, his eyes flickering with some dark emotion, “fortunes change, as do opinions. I only need to remind society that the Malfoys are more than just what my father chose when he was young and, dare I say it, stupid.”

Hermione stopped a bit at that, surprised Malfoy would say such a thing about his father.

“Even if he believed in the cause,” he said, correctly interpreting her expression, “he was foolish to walk into an unbreakable commitment at that age.”

“You would know about that,” she replied, shooting a meaningful look at his left arm.

“Precisely,” he answered. At that there was an awkward pause, into which a serving witch stepped with a tray of sweets and a pot of tea covered in a cosy. The young witch and wizard waited, silent, until she had put all of the treats down on the table and left again.

Hermione kept her eyes on the table as he cast a spell to gently warm the cups, which were exquisite, parchment-thin porcelain. When they were warm, she took the pot and poured the tea, first for him and then for herself. His eyes flickered up to hers with an expression that looked almost like approval. The teacher’s pet in her, eternally hungry for attention, had a brief moment of pleasure at the look. She quashed it immediately by remembering exactly who was giving it to her. But in for a Sickle, in for a Galleon; she wouldn’t give him the excuse to tell himself stories about Mudblood manners.

“Sugar? And do you take milk or lemon?”

“No, and lemon please,” he said, watching her float the delicate yellow slice in his cup.

They each raised their cups and took a sip, and Hermione couldn’t help herself. Her eyes flickered closed in absolute pleasure. The taste was extraordinary, still definitely tea but at the same time unlike any tea she’d ever tasted.

“What _is_ this?”

“I told you I would vouch for the tea,” he replied, smirking slightly. “Now you know why mother likes this shop. It’s a special blend. There’s this rather mad Indian wizard, Chaitanya Assamanupam, who persuaded Bowtruckles to take up residence in a tea plantation.”

“Why would he ever want do that? Bowtruckles become violent if you try to take a leaf or a twig from their trees.”

“Well, I did mention he was a bit mad. In any case, he and the Bowtruckles seem to have come to some kind of agreement. They select which tea leaves are to be taken and harvest them themselves, and what you’re drinking is the result.”

“It’s incredible.”

“Yes. Apart from the taste, I thought the founder of S.P.E.W. would approve.”

“How do _you_ know about S.P.E.W.?”

He tapped his temple with one finger. “Slytherin, remember? How are we supposed to make devious plots without good intelligence?”

Hermione opened her mouth to say something cutting, but realized a fraction of a second later that she actually agreed with him. Information was important for planning.

“Well, _inform_ me, then,” she replied. “What specifically is it you want? And what did you mean by ‘paying for it’?”

“As I said, Granger, it’s a new world. I can’t erase the memory of what my father... chose... but I can muddle the lines a bit by supporting a different cause. Like your little Society to Ensure Magical Beings’ Equal Rights. Congratulations on the name, by the way; the EMBER Society is a vast improvement. I’m not sure even the promise of my family’s redemption could have persuaded me to donate to ‘spew’.”

Hermione gave him an open-mouthed look. This had to be some sort of trick, or perhaps a hallucination. Draco Malfoy could not have just poked fun at his family and offered her money for EMBER in the same breath. She gave herself a surreptitious pinch under the table, but everything remained the same — the mirrors, the delicious steam rising from the cups, the unexpectedly serious grey eyes fixed on hers.

“Well, Malfoy, as long as you don’t intend to put any conditions on how I use the money, I guess I can’t refuse you the opportunity to pay some of your family’s debt through my organization. I’ll put you on the list of donors, and—”

He held up a hand, stopping her.

“If that were all I wanted, a name on a donor list, why would I have gone through all this trouble to ply you with Bowtruckle-plucked tea? Be reasonable, Granger.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I just told you, I won’t allow you to interfere with how my organization functions.”

“I know better than to ask you for that. I just want you to... to discuss it with me. In public. It’s not control I’m after, just the appearance of involved interest.”

“... not to mention the appearance of being forgiven by Harry Potter’s Muggleborn best friend,” Hermione added.

“Of course.” He nodded. “I knew you’d work it out.”

“What makes you think anyone will be fooled? It’s utterly transparent.”

“They’ll believe for the same reason you’ll agree to do it. For the same reason you started EMBER in the first place. Because you, Hermione Granger, cannot resist a lost cause.”

~ ~ ~

She couldn’t deny he had a point. Also, the amount he planned to donate was more than generous; it would almost double her budget for the year. She told herself it was worth it -- she could expand her lobbying efforts at the Ministry, perhaps even buy a few Elves’ freedom. For such causes she could stand a few afternoon teas, even if she did have to spend them with Draco Malfoy.

It was surprising, actually, how bearable it was. She’d anticipated having to grit her teeth through her time with him, but Malfoy turned out to be an unexpectedly pleasant conversational partner. Not that they really agreed on, well, anything; he was quite contrary, in fact. But much to her surprise, the arguments were actually useful.

At their second meeting, for example, she brought up the plan to buy house-elves out of slavery and he dismissed the idea out of hand.

“Most elves are perfectly content to remain in service to their families,” he said.

“With some notable exceptions.”

“Dobby was indeed notable. D’you know, I missed him when he was gone... none of the other elves could make hot chocolate quite as well as he could.”

“Spare me your fond recollections of forced labor.”

“Now Granger, that’s hardly fair. I was a child. Even if I’d had the brains to question anything my father said, I didn’t have the power to let him go. And it really was excellent hot chocolate.”

She rolled her eyes at him.

“In any case, he was also exceptional for wanting to leave the Malfoy family at all. Truly, the other elves are happy to stay where they are.”

“That’s because they don’t know anything different!”

“Well removing them by force when they don’t want to go seems a bit counterproductive, don’t you think? Do you want the legacy of EMBER to be pack of Winkies, crying constantly for the masters they lost and drinking themselves into a stupor every night?”

“Well... no, of course not.”

“Well, then. As you said, they don’t know anything different. So it makes more sense to work on education first, doesn’t it? I’d suggest offering housekeeping and service-magic classes. You can frame it as a way to improve their skills, convince elves from famously well-run homes to teach lessons. The elves will be able to attend without feeling disloyal, and you’ll have opportunities to introduce concepts like work without punishment. And payment, though I really do think you’re reaching too far with that one.”

“I could start by paying the teachers! Since they’d be doing extra work, not for their families, they might accept money... right? And it would get them used to the idea.”

“That’s really quite clever, Granger. Sneaky, actually.”

“Oh, no, Malfoy. I leave all the sneaking to snakes like you,” she shot back, enjoying his answering glare.

~ ~ ~

“You do realize that ‘lost cause’ really means _lost_ , don’t you Granger?”

“It’s not a lost cause. It’s just a difficult one.”

“The issue of wanded magic for non-wizards was the subject of several wars. I think you’re going to have to accept that generations of very competent wizards have already worked out the pros and cons.”

“Goblins are intelligent creatures. If they’re capable of using wands to do magic, they should be allowed—”

“I have no interest in seeing my money squandered on a project that’s even more doomed-from-the-very-beginning than all your other hairbrained—”

“ _Hairbrained_? I’ll have you know that I’ve already experienced some success—”

“Persuading Hogwarts to keep Winky on for pay doesn’t count.”

“Why not?”

“Your former Head of House is now Headmistress, and she was always biased toward Gryffindors. You didn’t get it on your own merits.”

She gasped in mock outrage. “That is the height of hypocrisy, coming from you. Top of the class in Potions for all those years, but only until _your_ bloody Head moved on to teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts—”

“That is _not_ how it—”

“Admit it.”

“Never. I am excellent at Potions. In any case, stop trying to make this about me. Please do illuminate any of your accomplishments _not_ attributable to biased former Professors.”

Hermione reached out for her cup of tea, collecting her thoughts. Most of her projects were still very much in the laying-groundwork stage. She valued good solid planning as the surest path to results, but she needed more than a well-researched outline to wipe that infuriating look off Malfoy’s face. He had also taken the opportunity to sip his tea, so she did the same, then looked down in puzzlement. The taste was... hang on. There was a slice of lemon in this cup. Her eyes flashed mischievously back up to Malfoy’s.

“Well, there’s my inoculation programme, of course. I believe that’s just hit another milestone, actually.”

His eyebrow arched as he took another sip of tea. “Inoculation programme? I don’t think we’ve discussed that one.”

“Of course not, since in that particular project you are a subject rather than an advisor. Partner. Advisory Partner.”

“Bother my title. What do you mean, ‘subject’?”

“I’ve been surreptitiously helping increase your tolerance for Muggleborns.”

“You’re barking, Granger. _I_ approached _you_ , didn’t I? What makes you think my tolerance needs further increasing?”

“Actually, you’re coming along nicely, if I do say so myself.”

“What are you on about, you mad—”

“It’s all about gradually increasing doses. When we first met it was all you could do to be in the same room with me; and now you’re drinking from _my_ cup.”

His eyes shot down to the cup in his hands, then back up to meet her laughing ones. “I thought it tasted odd.”

“You did _not_ , you tosser. You wouldn’t have noticed a thing.”

“No, there’s really something off about it.” He took another thoughtful sip, and Hermione hid her surprise. She hadn’t expected him to be upset, exactly, but she hadn’t thought he’d knowingly share a cup with her either.

“Yes, definitely better with lemon,” he said, adding a slice.

“Stop... you... that’s _mine_. You know I prefer it plain.”

He chuckled and set the cup down. “Too late now.”

She shrugged and took another sip of his tea. It actually was quite good with the lemon, but she’d rather have tried to bathe Crookshanks than admit it.

~ ~ ~

It took eight afternoon teas for Rita Skeeter to find them. Hermione didn’t find out about the article until two days later, when she was sitting outside the Burrow with Ron. He was in a poor mood, snappish and short-tempered. They couldn’t really settle into a conversation, since whatever Hermione said was met with grunts and single syllables. She tried just sitting in silence for a bit, but he kept fidgeting, and she finally broke.

“What is the _matter_ , Ron? You’ve been upset about something since yesterday.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, what is it?”

“I’m sure it will come to you.”

“Hang on, you’re upset at _me_? What am I meant to have done?”

“Oh, that’s rich. Like it’s nothing. Like you have no idea.”

“I _haven’t_ any idea, Ron. What are you even talking about?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

“Find out about _what_? Are you being intentionally thick?”

“Thick, am I? I guess you’ve proved that, haven’t you. Didn’t suspect a thing.”

“Ronald, you are even less informative than Professor Trelawney. Just tell me what you’re trying to get at.”

“ _This_ ,” he said sharply, and flung a copy of the Daily Prophet in her lap.

Hermione unfolded it and found a large photograph of her and Malfoy, heads bent together, studying something spread out on the table at their shop. Oh, she remembered that day. She’d brought in a map of the Forbidden Forest and neighboring wild lands so they could talk about Centaur habitat preservation.

She watched him look up as the tea arrived. Her printed self reached to tap his hand, calling his attention back to the map, and she saw for the first time Malfoy’s sharp look down at their hands and then up to her face. An almost tender expression flickered in his eyes as he looked down at her for a long moment, before he pulled his gaze back to look where she was pointing.

The scene repeated. Twice more, she watched herself reach for his hand, then that subtle but unmistakable gentleness wash over his face.

Ron shifted at her side and she pulled herself back out of the revelation. “I’ve done nothing wrong, Ron.”

“You call meeting that traitor in secret nothing, do you? ‘War Heroine Lays Seige to Malfoy Heir’s Heart,’ that’s nothing?”

“But that’s ridiculous. He’s just donating to EMBER! We were talking about Centaur habita—”

“Donating to EMBER? You expect me to believe that’s all it is? That explains why you told me all about it when you first started meeting him. That explains why I’ve known all this for months, and didn’t have to find out that my best friend was spending time on the sly with Draco sodding Malfoy from _Rita Skeeter_.”

“It wasn’t like that! I just didn’t think it was important.” Even as she said it, she knew that wasn’t entirely true. She hadn’t wanted to have the conversation, because she’d known Ron would blow it out of proportion.

“Not important. Yeah. There’s always something bigger. It’s always about your projects, or your grades, or your—”

“That is profoundly unfair. I knew you’d react like this if I told you.”

“So you were keeping it from me.”

“Not like that! We’re just working on this project together.”

“Yeah. You and the Death Eater. You’ve really got your priorities in order there, Hermione.”

“I have! How can you still not have learned to trust my judgment?”

He just stared at her, freckles dark against his angry white face.

“I’ve had enough of this, Ron. I’m leaving. Owl me when you come to your senses and realize that you have once again trusted _Rita Skeeter_ over one of your oldest friends.”

She stood up and Apparated back to her flat, collapsing on the bed (to Crookshanks’ great displeasure) before she realized that she was too angry to stay still. She’d have to walk it off. Standing back up, she grabbed her cloak and was fussing with the fastenings around the neck when her fingers brushed the pendant she’d bought months ago in Diagon Alley. She held it in her hands, comforted by its weight, then pulled the cloak back off again, dropped it on the floor, and undid the clasp of the necklace as well. Standing by the door of her flat, she brushed her fingers over it then slid her nail into the crack. It opened in her hand and she looked at it, the shiny interior reflecting the hall and the large vase of flowers she’d put on the table by the door, but no Ron.

When she’d bought it, she’d wanted it to confirm for her that being with him was the right thing to do. She loved him, of course, that much needed no confirmation. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to be with someone who behaved like he had today. She knew he’d cool down, then offer up a half-baked apology and pretend nothing had happened, but she didn’t want to live forever in that cycle. There was something missing, maybe; maybe somehow, just being attracted to one of your closest friends wasn’t enough to make him the ideal match.

She sat down in the chair next to the table, setting the locket down and putting on her shoes. It was nearly 3:30; almost tea time. She’d Apparate to the Leaky Cauldron, have a nice walk down Diagon Alley, and treat herself to a cup of that glorious tea. It would be nice to be there without Malfoy so she could put lemon in it without proving him right. Plan in place, she put both cloak and locket back on, grabbed a book, checked her hair, and fixed the courtyard behind the Leaky firmly in her mind.

~ ~ ~

Hermione loved it when things went according to plan. She’d had a nice walk, ducking down some side streets to avoid the Daily Prophet offices (she’d have to think about introducing the Muggle legal concept of _libel_ to the Wizengamot), and arriving at the front of their tea shop at precisely four. The shop was a bit more crowded than usual, but she didn’t mind that. Other people’s conversations would make a pleasant background noise for light reading; she’d learned that in the Gryffindor Common Room.

The witch guided her to the same table she always sat at with Malfoy. It felt a bit odd being there without him, but she ignored it and ordered a pot of the Bowtruckle tea with some lemon slices and began to read. When the tea arrived she put down the book and poured herself a cup, taking a deep breath of the steam and closing her eyes. Yes, this was exactly what she should be doing with her afternoon. A bit of time in this room of mirrors, reflecting on her future.

She shook her head, amused at her own pun, and... _ouch_. The clasp of her necklace was caught in the hair at the nape of her neck and it pinched when she moved her head. She reached up, trying to delicately untangle the hair from the clasp without pulling too much out or making matters worse. After a moment the necklace fell free and she held it in her hand for a while, sliding her thumbnail into the crack to hear it open then closing it again. She’d opened it and was looking at the reflection of all the mirrors in its glassy surface when she heard someone delicately clear her throat behind her.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” a refined voice said.

Hermione knew that voice. She looked up at a mirror on the wall in front of her and saw the beautiful older woman standing behind her, took one quick breath to collect herself, and turned around. “Hello, Mrs. Malfoy.”

“Narcissa,” she corrected. “It seems you’re a friend of my son’s; you ought to call me by my name.”

“Of course, if you like, Narcissa.” Hermione hid her surprise. “Would you care to join me for tea? Unless you’re here with friends...”

Malfoy’s mother paused just a slight moment too long, then sank gracefully into her son’s usual spot. “No, I’m alone. I had planned to meet my sister here, but she’s busy with my nephew today. He’s begun manifesting his magic; she’s being run ragged.” Her voice was warmer, almost fond. “Her owl said that he’d managed to make all her potion-vials grow legs. She’s trying to catch them before they trip and shatter themselves.”

Hermione laughed. “Teddy’s a dear. I hope Andromeda manages to stay ahead of him. At least she knew what to expect. My poor parents were at an utter loss when I—” she paused and looked up at the pureblood witch.

“Yes,” Narcissa said, her expression still warm. “They must have been completely unprepared.”

“Yes.”

There was a silence, and then Narcissa continued. “I wanted to thank you for what you’re doing. For Draco.”

Hermione looked at her, a bit confused.

“He was a bit worried, you see... thought you might not agree to spend time with him. I told him you would, but he was so nervous.”

Malfoy, nervous? That, Hermione would have loved to see. “Well, he’s donated most generously to EMBER. It’s the least I could do. I’m sorry that it’s been so misinterpreted... I should have anticipated it, knowing how the Prophet works, but—”

There was a flicker across Narcissa’s face at those last words. Hermione couldn’t put her finger on what had happened, but there had been _something_. She sipped her tea to fill the silence, and as she did so Malfoy’s mother stepped into the gap. “Think nothing of it. Now tell me about your House-Elf Educational Programme. Have you found enough teachers yet? Malfoy Manor is... used to be well known for its gardens. Perhaps there would be some interest in a gardening class?”

~ ~ ~

Hermione spent some time that evening brushing Crookshanks (who enjoyed brushing almost as much as he hated baths) and pondering her talk with Narcissa. It was peculiar, having a pleasant conversation with the sister of her torturer, but the woman had been genuinely... friendly was perhaps too strong a word. But not hostile, despite a Prophet article which might have made Bellatrix literally explode with rage.

The whole afternoon had been peculiar, actually. There was something that had begun to tickle her mind about that meeting, but she couldn’t quite remember what it was. Something she should have noticed. Oh well. It would come to her eventually. It always did. She just needed to run over the details, and the pattern would snap into focus.

~ ~ ~

“So much for clever Slytherin plotting,” she said when Draco joined her for their next meeting.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that article in the Prophet, as you very well know.”

He ran a hand through his immaculate hair, unconcerned. “It said you were after me. Nothing to be ashamed of, Granger. Everyone knows I’m irresistible.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m resisting just fine, although a nice little hex to remove that hair you’re so proud of _is_ growing more attractive by the moment.” She smiled in satisfaction as his eyes widened and he turned to check it in one of the mirrors. “Relax, Malfoy, your—” she said to his reflection, then paused as the mental tickle came back with a vengeance. She’d seen his mother in this very mirror two days ago, but she’d been looking at the locket at the time. Why had she needed to look up when she had already been _holding_ a mirror?

“My... hair? Is safe from your revenge? I’m pleased that you can appreciate an elegant coiffure even if you have decided you’re _above_ such things as hair potions. And combs.”

She was barely listening to him. She had to think. Had she ever seen _anyone_ reflected in that bloody thing except the maddening wizard sitting across from her? Even herself?

“Hermione?” He looked concerned. “You’re not threatening or mocking me, and that’s worrying. Is everything all right? You’re not ill?”

She gave herself a mental shake. She could think about this later. Tonight. Not now. She met his eyes, and put on a slight expression of distress.

“Well, I do find your arrogance a bit sickening.” That unexpected worry drained out of his eyes and was replaced by amusement, so she let herself start to grin. “You’ll be comforted to know it’s nothing that can’t be cured by a little depilatory hex.”

~ ~ ~

When she got home, she pulled the necklace off immediately. It opened under her fingers and she lifted it to eye level. It reflected the room perfectly, every detail of light... with the exception of her face.

~ ~ ~

She didn’t know how to act with him. They’d continued meeting, of course, and she kept up the bantering relationship they’d established, but her heart wasn’t in it. Or it was. Maybe it was. She felt flustered, somehow, even though she was half convinced that the entire enchantment on the locket was just a charm that preferentially reflected the first person you looked into it with. There was absolutely no way she was going to bring it up with him. She was just going to... keep meeting him. And drinking tea.

The Prophet had published one more story, about her meeting his mother, but her and Malfoy’s absolute lack of response (or change of routine) had taken some of the wind out of the gossips’ sails. She sometimes noticed one or two heads turning to look at them, but they ignored it and kept on. The tea was too good, he said, to move to another shop; and he was right.

Hermione looked forward to the meetings more and more, though she’d have cast that depilatory hex on herself before she’d have told Malfoy that. Sometimes she’d catch herself looking at him without hearing precisely what he was saying, not even thinking really, lost in more a general sort of appreciation of the light on his pale skin. On those days she gave herself a sterner-than-usual talking-to when she came home. They were friends of a sort, but there was _no way_ he would have anything to do with her in any... other way. Magic might exist, but there was still such a thing as Impossible.

~ ~ ~

They were finally ready to start the house-elf education project. She’d badgered Malfoy into hosting it at the Manor. His mother had been right; there _was_ interest in gardening. The school was starting small. Only the Malfoys and Andromeda Tonks (who had inherited an elf from her sister) had allowed their elves to teach, but there were many students. Hermione showed up a bit early, Apparating at the gate and waiting for Malfoy to come and fetch her. She wasn’t quite ready to go into the house -- too many memories -- but she was eager to observe the gardening lesson.

He walked out from the house to lower the wards and let her in, bowing her through the gate with exaggerated politeness.

“Prat,” she said, shooting him an amused look. Amazing how that politeness which had angered her the first day in the tea shop could make her feel so fondly toward him now.

“You honor my poor home with your presence, oh Emissary of the Wild Furred Ones,” he replied, bending even lower.

“You are imposs—” she began, and then stopped, her eyes fixed on something she’d just seen, a flash of metal at his neck. She knew that shimmer. Knew it like the back of her own hand, knew it like the weight she felt _right now_ at her own throat.

He looked up at her to see why she’d stopped, the false obsequiousness falling off his face as he took in her expression. His eyes shuttered as he straightened, put a hand to his neck, and felt what she was looking at.

They stared at each other.

“When—” she started.

“I—” he began at the same moment, then stopped. “Go ahead.”

“When did you get that?”

The guarded expression was still on his face, his eyes locked on hers. “Maybe six months before you did.”

“You were in the market for attraction spells, were you?”

“I was being pushed into an engagement, actually. I wanted confirmation.”

_Oh._

“Well? Did you get it?”

“Yes.”

Her heart dropped straight into the bottom of her stomach. How could he... but... she’d been a fool.

“I’m surprised you didn’t tell me. We’ve been friends for almost a year,” she said, unable to meet his eyes.

“Tell you what?”

“About your engagement.”

He took a step closer to her. “I’m not engaged, Hermione.” She looked up at him, quick, her eyes searching his.

Oh. Well. She took a deep breath and... “Who did you see?” She hadn’t been Sorted into Gryffindor for nothing, and anyway, she had to know.

He took another step. “Guess.”

“No, Malfoy, I will not. Tell me.”

“Draco,” he corrected, taking a final step. She was frozen, her heart back where it belonged in her ribcage, but racing so fast she thought it might escape entirely and leap away like a rabbit into the grass. He looked into her eyes, so close that he had to look back and forth between them, his grey eyes flickering as he waited for... something. He reached out slowly, as if she were the wild animal he always accused her of resembling, and laid a hand on the nape of her neck.

“Hermione—”

“Yes,” she answered, meaning it as a question, but it came out entirely too quietly and on a shuddering breath, and then he leaned forward and kissed her.

It began tentatively, almost chastely. He brought his other hand up to touch the side of her face and pressed his lips gently against hers. After a moment, she started to move her lips with his, and then she parted them and gently bit his lower lip. He groaned and his hand tightened on the nape of her neck, and then he ran his tongue into her mouth, just a little bit, breathing in her sigh as she met it with her own. She put her hand on his chest, feeling the heart beating under his skin just as frantically as hers. He kissed her again, softly, then pulled back to look into her eyes.

She gave him a mischievous smile. “I should have known.”

“What?”

“That you were arrogant enough to see _yourself_ in that locket.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I asked you who you saw, and you said guess, and I said no, and you said ‘Draco,’” she said, crossing her arms, trying to keep a straight face.

He smiled and pulled her into a hug, crossed arms and all, burying his face in her neck.

“I’m sorry,” he said into her hair.

“Sorry? For what?”

“That it took so long for me to accept what I’d seen,” he said. “I should have approached you six months earlier. Or six years. I should have...”

“Shhh. I don’t think I could have believed you any sooner, anyway.”

He pulled back, his eyes filled with sudden laughter. “That’s true. I did have to leave enough time for the Malfoy Inoculation Programme to take effect. But now that you’re able to tolerate me—”

“Now that _I’m_ able to tolerate _you?_ ” she began, unfolding her arms and pushing at his stomach, but he just caught her hands with a grin and leaned forward to kiss her again.


End file.
